


The Loneliness One Dare Not Sound

by azhdarchidaen



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Autistic Character, Everything's better with sweaters, Gen, INTERDIMENSIONAL SENSORY HELL, Technically references to the entire Pines family being autistic, Trigger warning for disassociation definitely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:39:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azhdarchidaen/pseuds/azhdarchidaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Loneliness whose worst alarm<br/>Is lest itself should see—<br/>And perish from before itself<br/>For just a scrutiny"</p><p>(the other side of the portal is the stuff of nightmares)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Loneliness One Dare Not Sound

fear??

      _fe a r_

_wrong fear? different fear?_

_different different scattered = scared??_

_fearscaredwrongdifferent fe a r **wrong**_

 

there’s a buzzing in your head, a _pain_  in your head because the buzzing won’t stop, and it’s blaring and it’s bright, and it’s like that time your brother talked you into going on the carnival ride that spun you around and around and the lights spun around and around too, except they’re spinning _inside your head_ this time and no one’s there to let you off

when fiddleford looked into the portal, he saw madness.

you don’t see madness, but what you see

 

                                                           is

 

wrong

 

wrongdifferent brightdifferent _angry_ bright?

 

the portal was bright on the outside, but inside it it’s a different kind of brightness, one you’ve only felt, never seen. you’re not sure if until now, if until here, it was possible to.

it’s like the brightness that happens when your face flushes red, and your words come out wrong because something inside of you doesn’t understand what they’re supposed to be doing.

it’s blindingly bright, but it’s also burning bright. like the stove you tripped into when you were doing too many things at once in the kitchen at age seven. (because reading and walking at the same time are all well and good, but peripheral vision has to go with them, or you get your tiny hands wrapped in gauze for a week and a half and can’t turn the pages right the whole time so it wasn’t _really_ a fair trade).

or it's like your shaking hands holding a piece of paper with pictures of a place you’ll never get to go, that are angry and heartbroken and don’t know what to do next at the same time -- but know that whatever it is it’s probably a bad decision. and that you’ll make it anyways because the good ones just left you in the _dust_

               scareddifferent **scary** different

……..alone……..different?                                                  

 

but really, why would being alone bother you? you’ve been alone before. you’ve been alone since you watched your trust fall apart along with your future (maybe they were intertwined all along and you couldn’t see that until they were gone)

this alone must be different

it’s not like the schoolyard alone, on the days stanley was home sick and you were on the swings quietly trying to _stay_ alone, because the alternative was being noticed, and being noticed meant bad things for you, and so alone was okay.

it’s not like the studying alone, when you built towers of books to bury yourself in and forgot about the world around you for as long as possible. (until you woke up with a headache, because even though you never _remembered_ passing out the coffee had done a number on your system and, now that you thought about it, had you actually eaten anything yesterday?) but you were working, working so hard because you wanted to mean something, to be something, and so alone was okay.

it’s not like the seclusion alone, that you almost sort of liked, because even though hiding in the woods meant loneliness, it meant finding the things you _loved,_ and you were always better with the cryptic and the unknown than you were with people anyways. (whether or not you always liked that) because it was a place where you might actually belong, and even if you belonged there alone, you still.... belonged? and so alone was okay

but this

 

       is

 **different** alone

                                                    **w r o ng** alone

 

alone……………..

 

  ……...…..                                                  

 

…………….alone……………………………………….forever?

 

and now you’re definitely not crying, definitely (you wouldn’t do that) just like how you’re definitely not trapped here (you can’t be, you can’t be that…. can you?) for ever and e v e r and

                                         ever and ev e r

and ever?

and ever and ever and

                                       ever an d……..                                 

 

you think you’re starting to understand why fiddleford snapped

because the brightness is bright and there’s a sound that _isn’t_ a sound, that you’re pulling your coat over your ears to stop, but it won’t it won’t stop, because it’s in your head and not your ears, and you can _still hear it_ even if……

                    ok maybe…..

 

                                                                    …..you’re crying

 

and you fall backwards a little, because you remember it’ll keep your glasses from smudging with tears (you can’t think right when there’s smudging), and then you remember you don’t have your glasses anyways and that doesn't make the crying any better

and maybe that’s okay, because the shapes around you don’t look like _real_ shapes and you don’t think an optometrist could do anything to help with that, and maybe if you can’t see just how different everything here is, how wrong the shapes are, how everything attacks your senses and _won’t stop_ , not even for a little bit, you might push away a tiny bit of the loneliness

 

wrongdifferent _alone_ wrong

     

different

                                     wrong

 

                                                                                                            alone

 

they’re the words you keep coming back to; they’re the words that you’ve always been coming back to, ever since you learned to count (which was very, very early), and you learned that sometimes some things are the wrong number (which was also early), and you learned that people didn’t like that (which was so much earlier than it should have been…..)

you’re shaking now and you don’t know what to do and it won’t stop and it’s like you’re melting down, melting down like you promised yourself you _wouldn’t_ anymore because that was in the past and you’re _done_ with the past (and maybe a little bit because the person in the past, in your childhood, the person who could see it was starting to happen to you and who would sit with you quietly until it passed because back then, back then you didn’t exactly feel like you _deserved_ to be alone -- that person isn’t there and he’s not going to be again)

but there’s no one there, there’s no one there and you’re melting down worse than ever and all you can think is that you’re always always always going to be

  
alone

 

until……………. there’s a fuzziness. and it’s warm, not hot, and it’s sleepy and so much softer than all the sharpness you were feeling just moments ago (sharp light; sharp burning; sharp tears, in the way that tears can be sharp as they race down your cheeks like little daggers not because of _how_ they feel, but because of _what_ they feel)

in the haze there’s a dark blur above you, and below you, and suddenly there’s a face and you’re shaking differently (more literally?) -- something has grabbed you by the shoulder and it’s shaking you back and forth gently. and suddenly there’s a sound -- a real sound, not a hard-to-place buzzing or a ringing that comes from your stinging brain, but _words_

“Grunkle Ford?”

The question is sharp, and you’re done with sharpness. But it almost sounds scared, and when you pair it with the weight on your lap and the concerned eyes in front of you it slowly softens to feel like the sweater of the little girl asking it.

Mabel’s eyes are wide, worried-looking, and before you know what’s happening her hand is in yours and she’s asking you again. “Grunkle Ford, are you okay?”

You shake your head to clear the last of the dream from your mind (and thank _god_ it was a dream) (sometimes you “woke up” in that hellscape of a dimension, “home” at last, but not really because it was never real, it was always ripped away) (but never... never with family around. something inside of you must have struggled with thinking they’d ever want you back.)

(you still really can’t believe they do.)

 “Just a dream,” you say, pulling a reassuring smile out from where you’ve been hiding that sort of thing all these years, when there hasn’t been use for them. Your niece doesn’t know your tics yet -- the nervous finger-tapping, the crossing and weaving of each one, all six, over and over each other -- to realize your response is one of stress, and not just having dozed off. You don’t think you ever want her to.

This is why, when you don’t accidentally doze off in the armchair, you sleep in the basement.

“Good one or bad one?” she says, leaning in closer.

“More like a memory,” you say carefully. What else can you even say, if you feel like you don’t want to lie to her outright? (and you don’t)

She gives you a sympathetic look. “Bad memories are like your brain frowning at you.”

You smile a little at the comparison, because even if it’s not the normal way of putting things, she has a better way with words than you ever did. (your way with words is terrible). But you also feel like reassuring her, with as much not-technically-lying as possible.

“Oh, I never said it was a--”

“You’re just like Dipper,” she says, shaking her head. “He always says they weren’t bad dreams, but nothing can get past Mabel-vision.”

“....Mabel-vision?”

“You were doing the twitching,” she says. “Where your eyes look like they’re rolling around and your fingers get all wiggly and you make scared noises even though you’re sleeping. Dipper twitches too. And it’s always for bad dreams.”

You frown a little. Apparently you can’t just hide everything. Maybe you _should_ just stay in the basement.

Mabel crosses her legs in your lap and looks up at you thoughtfully, giving what appears to be her idea of respectful space.

“Do you need to do your calm-down thing?” she asks.

“....My ‘calm-down thing’?”

“Yeah, to calm down. Like Dipper clicks pens and chews on stuff, I like to pull my sweater over my head or meow or something , I think Stan sometimes--”

“I don’t have one of those,” you say quickly. (you’re still not ready to talk that much about your family) (and maybe you really _don’t_ have one, and it’s all the bottling up that’s hurting there too)

Mabel’s eyes widen. “You don’t have _anything?_ Grunkle Ford, we need to find you one!”

"Don't worry about me," you say affectionately (you hope it sounds affectionately) "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"You don't understand," Mabel says dramatically, leaning in with her hands on your shoulders. "This is now my  _quest_."

She slowly, carefully appraises you. You’re not sure what she’s looking at but she’s doing it intently. Finally, she speaks

“ _You_ like sweaters! I’m going to make _you_ a calm-down sweater too,” she says. She points at your turtleneck  “That one doesn’t have a long enough neck for pulling.”

“Mabel, you really don’t have to--”

“--And it’s going to have some nerd science thing on it so you better pick one you like and tell me what it is,” she says instead. “But first, there’s the most important step.”

“The most important--?”

You don’t finish your sentence, because you don’t need to. Mabel giggles, shouts "Measurement!" and your arms are suddenly full of niece, and she’s squeezing you tightly -- tighter than you can remember anyone doing for a long, long time.

40 years?

"I’m sorry you have bad memories,” she says quietly, even if it’s a little muffled through sweater, because she’s small enough that in order to wrap her arms around you her face is in your chest.

There are a lot of things you could say to that. There are a lot of things you don’t believe about that. (it’s been too long) (you’re not used to this) (you never thought you’d get home) (you never thought anyone there would care if you did)

But instead of a lot of things, you do one.

Wrapping your arms around her too, a smile, this time a real one, crosses your face.

“It’s okay,” you say. “These new ones are getting better.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the entire pines family is autistic and i'll fight anyone who says otherwise


End file.
